


marriage can be viewed as the waiting room for death

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Selyse reflects on her marriage to Stannis the night before the Battle of Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	marriage can be viewed as the waiting room for death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



> i'm seriously protective over selyse after writing this??? like idek anymore if you talk smack about her i s2g 
> 
> happy new year to everyone! <3 have a healthy, happy and successful one! 
> 
> enjoy! <3

His lips are surprisingly tender as they press a kiss to her forehead. She wants to pull him closer to her, to have their bodies melt into one another until there is nothing they do not share. In all their years of marriage, they have not grown to love one another, but she admires him greatly. He is a just king, a fair man, the father of her child. He is R’hllor’s chosen one.

He has bedded her several times tonight, and as his seed sticks to her thighs, she finds it difficult to remember the last time they laid together. It is never out of love, though, but out of duty. He kept mumbling about making an heir, in case he would not return from the battle. (It is crazy talk, that is all it is. He has been in battle dozens of times, and he has returned to her after every one.)

He finally climbs out of bed; she notes with contentment that his movements are more relaxed, and have lost their usual stiffness. He redresses quickly, and she averts her gaze. She has seen him naked a mere handful of times; usually, when he beds her, they remain clothed, and he simply hoists her skirts over her waist. She has taken her septa’s past lessons to heart, and has learnt to lie back and stay quiet as her husband executes his right. It is not entirely unpleasant, but it is not spectacular, either.

“I should go now,” Stannis says, more to himself.

“Your Grace,” she tries, sitting up to get a better look at him. She holds the thick furs over her body; if it is from Karhold’s cold or self-consciousness, she does not know. “The moon shows no sign of leaving us. Surely you can spare a few hours.” Hesitantly, she reaches over and gingerly strokes his thinning hair.

“My men need me.”

“And _you_ need rest.” There are dark circles under his eyes, and his clothes are loose on his abnormally slim frame. Sleep will not come to him, though; it hasn’t for several months now. The war has taken a heavy toll on him, and on the eve of the Battle of Winterfell, she sees it for the first time. She was stupid before to not notice, foolish and ignorant. He may be a king, but he is also a man.

“Sleep is for the dead.” He finally turns to face her, a slight frown on his lips. “I’m not there yet.” _Yet._ The word twists in Selyse’s gut like a knife.

The battle has been long since anticipated and expected, though now that it is right around the corner, she finds it hard to believe it is real. They have been camping out at Karhold for weeks now, under the hospitality of Lady Alys and her wildling husband. (Selyse still does not trust the wildlings, and it is difficult to wrap her mind around the thought that a _noble lady_ is married to one of the…the _savages_.) The castle is spacious and filled to the brim with people, but despite all of its inhabitants and guests, Selyse finds it cold. It is further south than the Wall, but it brings a chill to her spine like no other. Perhaps it is because she knows that they are closer to the fighting, to the possibility of her husband’s death. ( _Stop that, Selyse; he will come through, like he always has_.)   

“Just lay with me for a moment,” she whispers. Her hand rests on the nape of his neck; his pulse pounds under her touch, ever steady. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall asleep.” Night terrors will plague him otherwise.

Almost reluctantly, he pulls away. “I cannot.” He stands up and grabs his cloak from the floor. “A moment will turn into several, and soon enough, I’ll miss the battle.” He pins the garment to his shoulders, and she has to smile. He has always looked strangely dashing in the cloak, like a true knight. (She still remembers her own Baratheon cloak, given to her by Stannis on their wedding day; she can still feel the slight pressure of his fingers on her shoulders as he’d wrapped it around her body.)

“Visit your daughter, at least, before you go.” Shireen always asks for him, even when she has little Rickon there for distraction. (Davos had been sent out to find the Stark boy, and he came back with not only Rickon, but a huge direwolf and a wildling named Osha. Selyse thinks that Rickon is a bad influence- there are rumours of him turning into a wolf at night, and even worse ones about him having eaten _people_ on Skagos. Shireen ought to find better company, but the two children are joined at the hip.)

“I will,” Stannis promises. He does not love Selyse, but he holds much adoration for Shireen. Their daughter is what has held the marriage together; she is the bridge over indifference and detachment. (Shireen is light and joy and _hope_ , everything Selyse and Stannis are not.)

“Send me a raven when you get to Winterfell.” The journey should not take longer than a couple of days, but her worries will not rest until she hears from him. She needs to be reassured that he will come home to her, to Shireen. (How would she ever be able to look Shireen in the face, and tell her that she would never see her father again? Just the thought of it makes Selyse’s heart ache in her chest.)

“I won’t forget.”

Forgetting about the cold for a moment, she stands up to face him. He is not much taller than her, but she feels tiny in front of him. She is naked, but he makes no sign of noticing it. He has always been impassive about those things- and _most_ things-, and she thinks that there must be a certain strength to that. She still has trouble guessing what he is thinking, and even then, more often than not, she is wrong.

“Come back to me,” she murmurs. With her hands on his shoulders, she pushes herself up to meet his lips in a soft kiss. Tentatively, he returns the kiss; the crack in his calm, collected mask is his fingernails digging into her hips.

Moments later, he pulls away. Both are slightly panting, and she can feel her lips beginning to swell. “I will see you soon, my queen.” He opens the door, but does not budge from his spot.

“Your Grace?”

“If it’s a boy,” he says quietly, staring at the wooden floor, “name him Renly.”


End file.
